


i am cold with no direction (but i am lost without your warmth)

by theyellowumbrella



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyellowumbrella/pseuds/theyellowumbrella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s like a scene from a movie, which is funny in itself, really. It’s the crowded room moment everyone hopes for, and yet you can’t breathe, because she is looking at you the way she did when she was just a child; like you hold the world in your hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i am cold with no direction (but i am lost without your warmth)

**Author's Note:**

> //title is from drown by front porch step
> 
> Written from Chloe's perspective.

It’s been too long. It’s been years.

You can still remember how she felt under you, neck a mess of lipstick and your marks, and how she would cry out when you hit that one spot. She fits perfectly underneath you still after all of this time, and you crave her touch. Her eyes are empty, lifeless and no longer the beautiful oceans you’d once swam in. Though her walls are lined with awards and photographs that prove her father wrong, that prove she could make something of herself, she is alone.

You’ve moved on now, to “bigger and better things,” as she’d once put it. You’re better, you’re doing good things, and yet there isn’t a day that goes by when you don’t wake up to the crippling reminder of how utterly gone she is. It’s been years, but it never hurts any less.

Seeing her in person is different than you’d imagined. She’s older; her hair isn’t graying but is slightly darker than her roots, and the eyes that had once shown everything she was thinking have been stripped bare. Her smile is fake; merely a motion made with her mouth rather than something she even thinks about anymore. You remember when she was ashamed of it—of the way her lips would struggle to remain straight before cracking out into the biggest smile you’d ever seen—and yearn for those days.

It’s like a scene from a movie, which is funny in itself, really. It’s the crowded room moment everyone hopes for, and yet you can’t breathe, because she is looking at you the way she did when she was just a child; like you hold the world in your hands.

Her lips are different now, after all these years. She wears some lipstick that you’ve never seen before but looks expensive—an incriminating pink that stains the prim bedsheets—and tastes like smoke, and the urgency she once had is gone. It’s like someone came up to her one day and stamped out the fire in the pit of her belly.

She wraps herself in the sheets, lips swollen and hair tousled, and she tells you that this was a mistake. You tell yourself that you don’t care and wonder if there was ever a time that that was true, and you watch as she reapplies her pretty lipstick and does herself up as something she’s not.

You try not to think about how she still fits with you so well because it doesn’t matter anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a tiny little drabble to get myself back in the game! Working on a few Bechloe-related things that I will (hopefully) publish soon. Also staubrey, of course. Come rant with me about these nerds on tumblr! You can find me at hurricaneshepherdess


End file.
